


It Cone-tinues

by BrandyFromTheBottle



Series: Ford's Nut AU [3]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Come Eating, M/M, Macro/Micro, Microfic, Mildly Dubious Consent, NSFW, Oral Sex, Other, SCIENCE FIDDLEFORD IT IS FOR SCIENCE, Stancest - Freeform, bad pine cone-turned-human-boy parenting, gratuitous meatloaf, implied tree fucking, underage because the pine cone looks like teen!stan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-05
Updated: 2018-07-05
Packaged: 2019-06-05 12:38:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15170927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrandyFromTheBottle/pseuds/BrandyFromTheBottle
Summary: The pine cone hatches and takes after its Tree Mama a bit too much. (Stan hatches, Fiddleford is exasperated, and Ford gets another mouthful of sappy fluid.)





	It Cone-tinues

Ford carefully transfers the dried pine needles and the scale of bark to glass jars, taking the time to neatly print the labels: name, date of collection. A dark slash of ink skitters over the parchment and adds another sooty stain to the worn wood of the kitchen table as Ford jumps. He is startled out of his thoughts by a clacking from the coffee mug to his right that has begun to shake worryingly on top of the stack of books. Ford sighs and puts aside the ruined label, careless of where the pen falls.

“What?” He asks the small thing which is moving feverishly back in forth in the mug despite the lack of space to do so. Upon hearing Ford’s voice, or perhaps seeing his face, the creature stops it’s rapid movements to shake its head before squinting up at him. The creature recognizes him and begins to shake again though now it seems to be from excitement, its eyes large and bright as its mouth opens and closes and its round face flushes. Ford worries a moment that the little thing can’t breathe as it gasps silently though it recovers quickly. “Do you even comprehend speech?” Ford places a hand around the mug to steady it. The creature hesitates in its actions to regard Ford before resuming the opening and closing of its mouth. Ford frowns and puzzles at just what it is he needs to do with this creature. He certainly can’t keep it in the mug, it’s proven more than capable of escape and should it roll out of sight there’s no guarantee Ford would ever find it again.

Ford looks around the kitchen-made-office before grinning, inspiration striking as he remembers the terrariums he used to make as a child in the rare glass jars of jam, each minute smear of the preserves savored until the next time his father deigned his family with enough disposable income to waste on such a luxury. 

Ford sets the mug on the table proper before he comes back with a jar that’s empty and relatively clean. He blows into the jar to dislodge any gross debris that quickly settles on his glasses. 

The opening of the jar is just a little smaller than the width of Ford’s hand, not surprising, but it does bring up memories of Ford’s unusually broad hand getting stuck in the glass jam jars of his childhood.

Ford tips the mug and the pinecone creature into his hand, the thing blinks rapidly as it adjusts to its world shifting so suddenly. It can barely orient itself before Ford tips it into the jar. It lands with a muted click as the woody scales hit the glass, wobbling on its rotund side. It immediately begins to roll toward Ford before it hits the glass. It regards the glass, shocked and bewildered, peering closely at the barrier, tapping it a few times with its head. It rolls back as far as it can before rolling rapidly into the glass, ricocheting from one side to the other like a ping pong ball or a charged atom. 

Ford shakes his head, deciding to leave the thing to its devices. He goes back to his work of storing his specimens, ignoring the pitiful clacks of the pine cone in the glass as he again begins to carefully label the jars. The cone eventually seems to settle as the irritating noise slows and finally stops, leaving Ford to record his final notes in peace before taking the jars into a side room to be placed on shelves and sorted later. 

As he finishes and returns to the kitchen, Ford hears a pitiful noise - a quiet, muffled whining. 

The cone has pressed its face tightly against the glass, distorting its features as it seems to make sounds reminiscent of sobbing. The noise is arrhythmic and stuttering and surprisingly rough as the pine cone gasps and whines, staring forlornly out of the jar until it sees Ford again. The gasping quiets into something like hiccups before the noise redoubles as the cone rolls frantically around in the jar and hits the sides loudly until Ford rushes over to steady the jar as the creature attempts to escape once again. 

“Honestly!” Ford steadies the jar between his hands, feels the vibrations and impacts of the cone’s movement. He can almost admire the small creature’s indomitable spirit, it isn’t content with only Ford’s attention, it seems to demand its freedom as well. “You’re being difficult,” Ford chides. The cone stills and looks up at Ford, letting out a low sound like a contented grunt as it stares up at him, adoring. With it still and Ford feeling, foolishly, bashful under the intense gaze, he realizes that the cone has begun to once again shed, the floor of the jar littered with the dry, brown scales. “What’s this?” He frowns and lifts the jar so that the cone is at the level of his eyes, ignoring the creature’s flushing face as it presses against the glass as if it wants to be close to Ford. Instead, Ford focuses on the cone itself, noting the thin slivers of pale, milky skin that peak through the gaps the scales leave behind. Ford can see that the cone is no longer just a human head, but it has a thick neck now that connects to what appears to be broad shoulders that are still somewhat obscured by loosening scales that have yet to fall. 

The pine cone doesn’t seem to be in distress, it merely wobbles on its back and grins up at Ford as it makes those rough grumbles that seem so strange coming from this small, soft thing.

“Is it,” Ford wonders thoughtfully at the jar. “Are you molting?” Ford hums and considers the small, animate pine cone and places it on the kitchen table to open his journal once more. He frowns slightly at the smudges where the ink hadn’t dried completely and a portion of the bark scale has smeared the delicate pen strokes detailing the layers of flaking. Ford turns to a new, clean page, takes a moment to run his six fingers over the smooth face and down the crease. His pen hesitates at the top of the page before setting pen to paper, the pen dragging in muffled scratches as it leaves dark, shining strokes behind it.

“The Wishing Tree Cone Man with Bird-like Attributes,” Ford begins. “Is an odd creature that resembles the pine cone of the pinus ponderosa but like most of the residents of Gravity Falls there is more to it if one gives it time and observation.” The cone thunks insistently against the glass and when Ford spares it a glance, its face is pressed against the glass, nose flattened into something snoutlike and the image is something so much like a human child’s own antics that Ford is unsettled. “In the first hours of observation, the Wishing Tree Cone Man with Bird-like Attributes,” Ford shakes out his hand as it starts to cramp. The cone creature watches it with rapt attention. “Bares an indistinguishable resemblance to a typical, unweird pine cone. However, the cone is observed as changing from a tight, verdant green to a more recognizable dry brown. In time, the dry scales separate and seem to shed and reveal the head of a human, in this instance a human remarkably similar in structure to myself.” Ford pauses to review what he’s written and to give the creature, which has again begun to make its pitiful whimpering sounds, the unimpressed look he received often from his own father. The sounds hesitate only as long as it takes for Ford to look at the glass jar. The moment he looks back to his page the noise starts up again and Ford grits his teeth against reacting. 

“The creature has, within the remarkably short amount of time I have been in possession of it, begun to shed at an exponential rate. While contained in a glass jar (the coffee mug proved to be insufficient as the creature repeatedly managed to topple it) the cone creature became violently opposed to its container. While I was storing samples in another room the creature had dislodged a number of its woody scales. I am unable to tell if they were dislodged by force like a tooth or via shedding like feathers or fur.” Ford glances back at the cone creature that continues to stare at him, face growing redder as its eyes get wide and wet. The whimpering is muffled by the glass, its breath fogging the surface with condensation. 

“Its body seems to function in a similar manner to a mammal; it displays endothermic characteristics such as regulation of blood flow as observed through flushing of the face.” The creature makes a particularly loud noise of distress, something like a groan that rises into a miserable cry. “Since its’ ‘hatching’ the creature has developed a limited set of vocalizations, primarily various nonverbal expressions of distress which it employs often, though its’ favored is what I can only describe as a “Speep.” The creature begins to protest its confinement once again by rolling into the walls of the jar again, the small sounds of impact now accompanied by grunts and grumbling whines. 

“Stop that,” Ford chides, and taps the end of his pen against the jar. The creature startles for a moment, alarmed by the movement. Then thumps against the wall again until it loses another woody scale. “Stop that!” Ford says again with growing alarm. He has assumed that the shedding of the scales is a natural part of the cone’s life cycle but Ford, without other subjects to observe, cannot be sure. The cone pauses long enough to look resolutely at Ford, face screwed into a glare before it opens its mouth and releases a loud, furious:

“Speep!” 

Ford blinks at the pointed, cognizant defiance as if the creature has understood exactly what Ford has said down to the tonal inflection and verbiage and has responded in an equally expressive, if non-eloquent manner. 

“You are damaging yourself,” Ford reasons, sets his pen down carefully, mindful of the still clean, unmarked pages that he hopes to preserve until he sets his pen to paper with purposeful intent. The cone continues to glare at him and roll and wobble loudly in the jar, scales falling more rapidly and alarmingly until the bottom of the jar is blanketed with them. “Stop!” Ford shouts, grabs the jar as if he can stop the manic energy within it by immobilizing the jar itself. To his surprise, the cone seems to slow, the thuds and thumps growing weaker until Ford fretfully pulls a hand away to peak at his charge and feels an uncertain pang of fear.

The cone has disintegrated - has left behind a pile of woody scales and Ford is sure that the creature has expired lik spent confetti until he sees a minute movement from within the jar. The scales begin to shift and rise before falling away slowly to reveal something smooth and pale.

The familiar head of the cone rises, bewildered and concerned, looking around before falling into the bed of pine cone scales with a distressed grunt. It tries to right itself, flinging out an arm it has never before possessed, catching itself with another concerned noise.

“Ah,” Ford says, pressing his fingers against the bridge of his glasses, pushing them up where they had fallen. The creature looks up at him wide-eyed and Ford can see the slope of small shoulders, the rapid rise and fall of the creature's chest as its breathing quickens. It looks down, tiny hands groping until it manages to grab a pine cone scale. It examines the scale intently, brows furrowing as it examines this part of its old body. Ford takes up his pen again and begins writing furiously.

“The creature has completed what can only be called a molt. The entirety of the pine cone has been shed to reveal what appears thus far to be a humanoid body no greater than fifteen centimeters in height, weight undetermined,” Ford stops in his writing when he hears more distressed whining. He expects to find the creature pressed against the glass, renewing its attempts at freedom with its newfound appendages, namely thumbs. Instead, the creature has huddled to one side of the jar (lacking a corner proper)  and seems to be pressing the scales around it against its new, soft skin. The scales linger a partial second before falling away and as they fall the small thing cries out miserably.

“Well,” Ford begins, the creature looks up at him, face red and, to Ford's horror and delighted curiosity, wet with tears. It blinks several times, shedding new, fat tears before it drops the scale it had been clutching and tries to stand, clawing at the smooth glass for purchase as its legs wobble. When it manages to stand the creature takes a tentative step forward, only to slip on a scale and fall. It is motionless on the ground for a moment before it begins to wail.

Ford startles back and away from the jar and the table, his pen dotting the open page of the journal with splatters of ink. Ford curses and makes a note to acquire a pen that won’t leak and waste so much of his efforts before his focus falls back on the tiny, humanoid creature that is throwing what his mother would call a tantrum. 

The little creature has surprising volume, given its small size, even as it muffles itself in its arms, curling into itself defensively. Ford clears his throat as he tries to think of something to do about this unfortunate development and the distraught creature.

“You, um,” Ford starts, raising his voice slightly over the noise. “You should be happy.” He says. The creature doesn't seem to respond, just continues to cry into its arms. Ford picks up the jar, causing the creature and the scales to shift at the movement. The creature startles out of its fit enough to look up, utterly miserable and devastated at its predicament until it focuses on Ford. It somehow manages to shift against the side of the jar closest to Ford's face, its body twists at the hip so that its hands are flat against the jar’s surface. It opens its mouth a few times quietly, eyes intent and almost pleading as its hands open and close against the glass, futilely grasping at nothing. “Honestly,” Ford begins, “You are overreacting.” Ford continues reasonably and is rewarded with snuffling as the creature quiets, though it is still staring at Ford with a desperate expectancy. “I'm not familiar with your kind but I may reasonably presume that while you seem distressed you are not injured and as such this metamorphosis is nothing to be so,” Ford pauses to consider his words. “dramatic about.” It's disappointing that the creature's sullen expression doesn't change but it is at least quiet as it listens to Ford. Still, the little hands open and close against the glass. Ford sighs and tips the jar on its side. 

“Speep!” The creature shouts in surprise as it falls with its shed scales like molecules in a gyroscope.

“Come on,” Ford urges softly. “I'm not quite sure what's happening, either, but--" Ford stops and blinks as the creature surprises him by attempting to roll toward the opening instead of employing it’s more efficient legs. The creature makes several frustrated grumbles as its new limbs act to impede its progress until it pulls its arms and legs together toward its center to roll like a log. The movement is still awkward as the jar isn't wide enough to allow unimpeded rolling but whenever the creature finds itself stuck it wriggles until it can roll again until it finally comes to the lip of the jar and manages to fall into Ford’s palm.

Immediately, the creature curls into itself, grasping a woody pine cone scale that escaped with it to its chest. It's heavier than Ford expected, which is foolish given that Ford handled the creature in its fully coned stage, but the small, warm body is an instant pressure in Ford's palm that Ford's muscles compensate for with minute ticks and twitches. Ford brings the creature a bit closer to his face once again to see it in its present state, without the barrier of curved glass to distort any details he had yet to see. It is still a seemingly human form, pale but rosy in places were a flush has bloomed, but Ford can now see the slightest suggestion of hair on the creature's skin as the near invisible pilus catch the light. 

“Speep,” it says again and looks at Ford with its large, brown eyes. Ford again notes the similarities between the creature and himself, though he is certain he has never looked so miserable. 

Ford opens his mouth to speak, to reassure the creature as it clutches the pine scale to its body like a child would cling to a beloved toy when he hears the front door open with a loud, vigorous bang.

“Stanford? Y’all here or are ya out chasing gnomes ‘r somethin’?” Fiddleford calls from another room, voice muffled by the walls but loud enough to be understood.

“I’m here!” Ford shouts and tips the small creature onto the table. It slides from his hand with another startled noise, landing awkwardly in a splayed heap among the scattered scales. “And there isn’t a point in chasing gnomes, McGucket, your traps work quite fine.” Ford looks warningly at the creature on the table. “Don’t fall off.” 

“Kind o’ you t’ say,” Fiddleford rounds the wall and stands in the open doorway in the loose, informal attire he adopts when visiting his family: flaring, impractical jeans and garish floral print. 

It’s very stylish, Ford was assured. Fiddleford freezes when he sees Ford, face reddening. “Not that I ain’t about livin’ free but y’know y’ain’t wearin’ nothin’?” Ford frowns before all of the blood in his body rushes to his face, making him lighted headed as one hand flies down to secure his towel and the other irrationally over his chest as he becomes aware of the nakedness of his skin and the hardness of his nipples. He says nothing for a moment and an uncomfortable silence settles between them.

“You broke the washer,” he blurts out in explanation, flush diffusing across his body as Fiddleford continues to stare blankly at him.

“Ya said I could!” Fiddleford says incredulously and he throws his hands in the air, jostling the strap of his knapsack in his exasperation. 

“I said you could use the parts, not break the machine!”

“Machine can’t work without its parts, Stanford! That’s why I needed the parts in the first place!” 

“Well, now we have no clean clothing,” Ford says, confidence returning as he draws himself straighter. Fiddleford makes an inarticulate noise, roughly running his fingers through his hair before tugging it harshly. 

“Yer tellin’ me in the last month since I done cannibalized them parts ya ain’t washed so much as a sock.” Fiddleford leaves his hair in disarray, shaking his head as he enters the room, hand on the strap of his canvas bag like a lifeline.

“I’ve been busy!” Ford snaps, embarrassment forcing his shoulders up to his neck when he realizes that there is still a damning, crusted spot on the towel where his earlier release has dried. (And Ford scowls when he remembers that this is the second instance in one day that he has been in this position, soiled clothing against his skin.) 

Fiddleford sets his bag on a chair after moving a stack of books to the floor.

“God bless your ma, Stanford Pines,” Fiddleford reaches into his pack and pulls out a Tupperware container. “Lord knows she needs it.” When the Tupperware makes contact with the table and Fiddleford goes to open he startles. “Well, now what’d y’ got there?” 

The creature, in the short time it has been out of Ford’s eyesight, has begun to drag the pine cone scales behind the journal, creating a somewhat poorly hidden pile which, when it sees Fiddleford leaning toward it, the creature attempts to burrow into with a frightened “Speep!”

“Ah, yes. The Wishing Tree Cone Man with Bird-like Attributes,” Ford says proudly.

“Ya find that tree, then?” Fiddleford asks, stepping up to the table to pick up a scale to inspect more closely when the creature makes a quiet “Speep.” from its hiding spot. Fiddleford pauses, distracted by the noise. “Sounds like a bird.” 

“It’s not a bird,” Ford says and reaches over to dust the scales away from the creature, revealing it’s shivering form to his assistant. “It has bird-like attributes.”

“Stanford Pines,” Fiddleford starts, crossing his arms and pinning Ford with a look when he takes in the small, human-like creature cowering in the wreck of its hiding spot. “Ya know what we decided about clonin’ what with the copyin’ machine.” He says. “And if that’s another darn shapeshifter, Stanford, there’s gonna be a reckonin’.”

“It’s not a clone,” Ford answers, irritated with the hasty accusations. “It’s--” Ford is cut off by muffled crying. He looks down at the source to find the small creature frantically pulling the scattered scales back to itself (and Ford is struck, suddenly, with the memory of his school days, of hurrying to class with an armload of essays and journals and tripping over some carefully placed foot or ankle and scrambling to gather the pages together before they were ruined or lost). “It was a pine cone,” he says. 

Fiddleford squints suspiciously at Ford before looking back at the creature that is clutching the scales in its small fists, looking from Ford to Fiddleford with big, wide eyes wet with unshed tears. 

“Well, hello there, little feller,” Fiddleford grins to no effect as the creature just makes small, raspy “Speep!” noises, pushing into the wall of the books’ edge and peeking over a scale that it holds like a shield. Fiddleford isn’t deterred. Instead, he starts to scold Ford. “Ford, I swear, ya couldn’t raise a levitatin’ barn,” he clucks and carefully cups a portion of scattered scales together, hesitating when the “Speep!” noise gets louder and more frantic. “Yal don’t worry,” Fiddleford coos and begins to sweep the debris toward its original owner. The creature scrambles away, still awkward in its body and impeded by the scales around it as its “Speep!”s grow in volume and frequency. “Aw, now, Stanford, what did’ya do t’ make the lil thing so scared?” Fiddleford leaves the small pile of scales close to the creature and pulls his hand away to give the creature space. While it continues to sniffle it tentatively reaches out to cover itself with the scales again. 

“What?” Ford grumbles when Fiddleford glares at him and tuts.

“How long you had this poor boy?” His assistant asks. 

“Well, I must have found the cone earlier today and--wait, what time is it?” Ford tries to glance out the window but it is obscured by books and dust. Fiddleford snorts.

“It’s evenin’, just about supper time. I swear,” Fiddleford shakes his head. “If Mrs. McGucket didn’t take care t’ cook an extra helpin’ you’d waste away.” Fiddleford reaches for the scratched and stained Tupperware container he’d produced earlier. With a damning Pavlovian response, Ford's stomach rumbles loudly as he can very nearly feel the hollow organ folding over nothing and threatening to cramp. He unconsciously curls a hand around his middle as Ford eyes the offered meal and waits while Fiddleford begins to tut and fuss and interject his own scolding with non sequitur commentary.

“Swear, Stanford, yer leaner ‘an a jackrabbit an eat half as much." Fiddleford opens the containers, the pungent scent of indiscernible food wafts into the air, and Ford's stomach rumbles again. Ford is about to make an excuse for his stomach when a very small “Speep!" sounds from the table. The two men look over to find the creature peeking cautiously over the edge of the open journal and focusing alternatively on Fiddleford’s hands and Ford's face. It seems less afraid but still nervous.

“You'll have to thank your wife,” Ford says, ignoring the creature for now as he watches Fiddleford pry the rest of the lid free to reveal what could be meatloaf, if anything has survived the flood of ketchup.

“I thank her e’ryday,” Fiddleford says, a soft and fond smile creeping over his face. “Now. Did ya do the dishes or are we eatin’ outta the container again?” Ford flushes, checks the sink, which is empty, but he sees no plates in sight.

“No point in dirtying a utensil we’ll have to wash,” Ford says. 

“A fork at least,” Fiddleford says. “I don’t give the ‘p’ in pterodactyl if you eat with your face or a fork but these are the good missus’ Tupperware and it don't seem right t’disrespect ‘em.” Ford guiltily pulls his hand back to his side. 

“I might have a fork,” he grumbles and turns to dig around in the kitchen.

“I know y’all got a fork, Stanford, ya darn near gutted me on one with that gun o’ yours.”

“The magnet gun?” Ford asks over his shoulder. “Yes, it’d it’d be quite useful right now.” 

“Or ya could put the dishes in their proper drawer, it ain't that hard.” Fiddleford chides. 

“If you had put the dishes away, you'd know where they were wouldn't you?” Ford replies, a bit testy as another drawer is filled with papers, dust, and a few brightly colored pebbles that he thinks he swiped from the clearing he suspects the unicorns hide in. He scowls, having run out of drawers he looks over the counter again, lifting up papers and the odd box.

“I'm your assistant, Stanford, not yer housekeeper,” Fiddleford drawls. 

“Yes, yes,” Ford waves a hand in dismissal. “Hah!” He finds a fork pinning a sheaf of faded notes to the bottom of a cardboard box. It's a bit of a struggle to wrench the fork free but he manages, flipping the box as he turns and scattering papers that spin around him like falling leaves. He brandishes the fork triumphantly, ignoring the slight layer of dust and the scrap of parchment that's stuck to a tine.

“Just one?” Fiddleford asks with a quirked brow. Ford frowns, feels his face heat slightly under the unimpressed glance Fiddleford gives Ford's victoriously raised hand, which Ford then lowers slightly. 

“Well, I'm not sure where you put your fork,” Ford says, blowing the dust off the utensil. “That's hardly my responsibility.” Fiddleford closes eyes, pinches the bridge of his nose and rubs his eyes, displacing his glasses.

“Eat the meatloaf before ya say somethin’ I’ll regret.” Fiddleford moves a stack of books from a chair to the floor, displacing another stray mug of coffee that falls with a loud crack. “Tesla and a pigeon!” Fiddleford jumps in surprise, hand flying to his chest, clutching the fabric. “Stanford!” Fiddleford glares at Ford, free hand adjusting his glasses from where they’ve gone askew. 

“You need to be more careful,” Ford says, pulling the scrap of paper from the prongs and letting it flutter to the ground. Fiddleford opens his mouth, incredulous, before he slowly closes it and takes a deep breath as he sits. He exhales loudly, cracks an eye open with a loose grin and shakes his head. Ford frowns at him but takes a seat without comment, pulling the Tupperware close to himself to eat as his stomach growls loudly once again. Fiddleford says something but Ford doesn’t hear it, after the first sloppy bite of meatloaf and ketchup his stomach becomes almost painful in its emptiness and he feels he can’t fill it fast enough. 

He’s wrenched into the present, a nearly physical vertigo accompanying the mental shift, by a hard smack against his naked bicep. He realises that: he has been devouring the meal of meatloaf like a starving gnome, he is still mostly naked save the soiled towel around his waist, and the small human-like creature has been slowly inching its way around the journal with a scale clutched to its chest. It has been startled to stillness by the loud slap and Ford’s subsequent: “Mph!” 

Ford swallows roughly and coughs, eyes watering as he recovers from nearly inhaling his meal. “Fiddleford!” He chokes, wiping his mouth of spittle and ketchup and glaring at his assistant. “What on earth is--” Fiddleford shushes him harshly, raising his hand to smack at his shoulder again when a small pine cone scale falls with a small thunk on the table. Both men turn to look at the small, trembling creature white-knuckling another small scale. It’s tiny face is furious and resolute as it glares at Fiddleford’s frozen hand. The creature hefts the scale threateningly and begins to side-step its way to Ford, always angling itself to menace Fiddleford.

“Stanford,” Fiddleford says slowly as he carefully pulls his hand away. The small creature makes its warning noises, but doesn’t lose its projectile. “Stanford,” Fiddleford says again and when Ford tears his fascinated gaze away from the creature he sees Fiddleford’s face wrinkled with mirth, eyes shining as it seems he is barely restraining himself from laughing.

“Fiddleford,” Ford says, frowning with confusion between his nearly hysteric assistant and the small, angry creature between them.

“Lil feller took a right shine t’ you!” Fiddleford manages to say. The creature makes several unhappy noises as it scoots further back and away from Fiddleford and closer to Ford. “He’s like a pint-sized pit bull, for sure!” The creature is still moving backward, so focused on the perceived threat that it doesn’t notice the discarded Tupperware lid behind it and has no chance when it stumbles, pinwheeling into a broad spread of peaked ketchup. It immediately begins shrieking and flailing in distress. Ford can only watch in baffled confusion as his assistant breaks into loud, whooping laughter, banging the table in jubilant mirth and upsetting the small creature further.

“Stop!” Ford says, to either Fiddleford or the hysteric creature he isn't sure. He also isn't sure it would matter, as neither the man nor the creature responds, Fiddleford wiping his eyes with one hand and bracing himself against the table with the other as the creature finally manages to flail its way free of the sticky condiment. 

“Aw, Stanford, ‘e’s just darlin’,” Fiddleford sighs and rights his glasses on his long, red nose, face flushed from laughter. “Honest, o’ all the nonsense y’all’ve brought back this lil feller’s my favorite.” Ford opens his mouth to respond but it interrupted by something small, wet, and sticky bumping into the hand against the table. Fiddleford coos when they both look down to see the creature has run to Ford and is now attempting to scramble over his arm, presumably to hide from the threatening world in which it has found itself. Ford frowns in distaste as the wriggling body smears him with cold, almost slimy ketchup. Ford huffs, setting down his fork and forgoing his meal in favor of moving his arm away from the creature and gently circling its sternum with his thumb and two foremost fingers. It “Speep!”s in distress and continues to wiggle until Ford puts it again on the opposite side of the Tupperware; it stumbles and falls to its rump.

“Stay,” he says and picks up his fork again. The creature stares at the table for a moment before looking back up at Ford, confused, and standing to make its way back to him. Ford places his hand like a wall between him and the creature and the creature immediately throws both of its small arms over the little barrier and seems to just cling there, pressing its body, still covered in now drying and flaking ketchup, flush to Ford’s skin. Ford wrinkles his nose in distaste.

“Aw, Stanford,” Fiddleford settles at the table, resting his head in his heads as he watches the tiny creature’s antics. Ford wiggles his hand to dislodge the creature but it only clings harder and makes an unhappy grunt. “Y’all’ll have t’ tell me how y’all found this feller.” Fiddleford grins at Ford, eyes twinkling behind his round spectacles, expectantly. Ford immediately flushes and shoves a piece of meatloaf into his mouth.

“I found it a’ tree,” Ford says around his mouthful, still avoiding Fiddleford’s face as he becomes acutely aware of the nakedness of his skin, the reason for that nakedness, the same reason that still soils the towel he is sitting in, at the table with his assistant and friend. Ford feels himself getting redder and almost lightheaded, he has, perhaps, not consumed enough of the proper nutrients today.

He shoves another piece of meatloaf into his mouth almost before he swallows the first.

“Slow down!” Fiddleford scolds. Ford shows his compliance with another bite.

The creature has, during this time, begun to scoot its way along Ford’s hand in an attempt to get around it only to be thwarted by Ford moving to compensate. “If y’all choke I’m takin’ the grant money an’ buyin’ a raccoon ranch.” Ford finally stops his shame-fueled eating to give his assistant a bewildered look.

“Why a raccoon ranch?” He asks after he swallows. 

“Why not?” Fiddleford shrugs. “They're brilliant little critters.” 

“They're a menace,” Ford says, thinking back to the numerous raccoon-foiled gnome traps. “Stop that!” Ford directs a glare at the previous pine cone and shakes his hand slightly but the creature only clutches him more furiously. Ford huffs again, licks a stray smear of ketchup from his lips. “Could you get me that jar?” Ford nods to the jar he had placed the cone in earlier before it had shed its scale to reveal a small, temperamental creature. 

“This un’?” Fiddleford snatches the jar by the lip between two of his long fingers and drags it closer. The creature startles and glances over to watch Fiddleford’s action suspiciously. “Y’ain’t gonna put the missus’ meatloaf in here.” 

“No, the creature. I need to eat.” When Ford sets down his fork to reach for the jar, Fiddleford pulls it out of his reach with a frown.

“Y’can’t jus’ throw the lil feller in a jar!” Fiddleford drags the jar even farther away, giving Ford an almost scandalized look.

“Why not? Give me that,” Ford stretches further, though between the width of the table, Fiddleford’s impressive reach, and the various books and research paraphernalia it is a doomed endeavor.

“Jus’ not right,” he says. 

“I'm hungry,” Ford says. He does not whine, though his inflection is more pleading than he means, and gives his hand a small shake. The creature has nearly rounded his fingers. “Stop,” Ford changes tactics, moves his hand up and over the creature, which is unbalanced and falls with a soft noise, before gently but firmly grabbing the creature around its torso again, this time to restrain it. 

“Y’ate near the full loaf,” Fiddleford says, amusement crinkling his eyes once more. Ford looks, ignoring the vocal wriggling of the creature. He has, indeed, eaten a deceptive amount of meatloaf though how much exactly is obscured by the thick layer of ketchup. “‘Sides, he needs a wash,” Fiddleford nods to the creature, which is either trying to awkwardly wrestle Ford's thumb or hugging it tightly and Ford is frankly comfortable with neither, especially now that Fiddleford has pointed out that the creature is still dirty from its tumble into the ketchup.

“Well,” Ford starts. “I suppose you could wash it while I finish eating.” 

“Oh, sure.” Fiddleford snorts. “Jus’ pass ‘im ‘ere.” Ford tries to carefully lift the creature and deposit it into Fiddleford’s outstretched hand, and the creature, while desperate to free itself earlier, refuses to let go of Ford's thumb as if it is a life preserver, keeping it afloat in a storm. 

“Go to Fiddleford,” Ford says while trying to flex his thumb in a manner that might dislodge the creature without dripping it completely. “I'm not sure of how sentient it is,” he says. “The creature does poorly responding to verbal commands.”

“Most young on’s do,” Fiddleford agrees sagely.

“It's not a child,” Ford grunts, now employing his free hand to try and pull the creature from his thumb only to have it writhing around until it can cling to this new hand. 

“Y'all said the lil feller’s jus’ born,” Fiddleford says, finally withdrawing his hand and rendering Ford's attempts to transfer the creature moot. 

“There is no reasonable evidence that this is a juvenile state for the Wishing Tree Cone Man with Bird-like Attributes and Human Manifestation,” Ford flares at said creature that is acting, admittedly, juvenile as it clings stubbornly to Ford. 

“No evidence that it ain't,” Fiddleford retorts.

“It also isn't--hey!” Ford startles and nearly throws the creature when he feels something tiny and warm and wet run against his skin. When he looks down the creature has begun to lick him, or rather, lick a small spot of ketchup on Ford’s hand. Its face is focused singularly on its newest task, which seems to be lapping the residual condiment, its small face and Ford’s hand getting shiny with saliva. “Do you think it might have carnivorous inclinations?” Ford asks. “Or does this seem to be more of a grooming behavior?”

“I think y’all both need a wash,” Fiddleford says. Ford frowns at his assistant, though his mind is focused on the creature that is now sucking on his skin.

“I took a shower before you got here,” Ford says. “In fact, as you pointed out earlier, I am still not dressed.”

“Y'all really got nothin’ clean?” Fiddleford asks, beginning to package up the Tupperware to be placed in the refrigerator. “Not even boxers?” Ford shrugs in response.

“Pass me my journal, will you?” Ford's hand, the one not currently engaging a small, previously pine cone creature, reaches out in a grasping motion, waiting for a pen to fill it. “I need to record this.” 

“You need t’ get the lil feller cleaned up.” Fiddleford grabs his bag from the floor, leaving Ford bereft of pen and paper. “I’m gonna get that washin’ machine o’ yours workin’ so y'all don't end up driving away all the weirdness with your stink.” 

“Hey!”

“An’ I might even make ‘er better,” Fiddleford says, eyes already focusing on something only he can see. “Now, if’n I take the hose from the car--"

“Fiddelford, don't touch the car!” Ford shouts after his assistant and gets only an absent wave before Fiddleford rounds the corner and disappears into the house. Ford glares at the empty door frame, willing Fiddleford to come back and give Ford his journal, his pen, his meatloaf, and the peace of mind that Fiddleford wasn’t going to cannibalize the car to fix the washing machine. Fiddleford doesn’t come back, of course, Ford hasn’t yet found a method to create a more permanent bond through the telepathy fungus and Fiddleford was unnerved by the very idea alone. 

“Speep,” the creature mumbles, causing Ford to look down at it, sucking absently on Ford’s skin while staring up at him with something unreadable but intense. Ford notes the flakes of ketchup on its forehead and creeping over the pale curve of its shoulders, the hardened spikes of its dark hair that are like cropped pine needles and spread in stiff disarray. 

“I suppose you are a bit messy. Do you groom yourself?” Ford brings his hand to the table to release the creature. It clamps it’s tiny hands on Ford’s fingers as its feet hit the table, unsteady after being airborne for so long and still focused on Ford and his well-licked skin--skin which is shining and reddened from the creature’s attention. The creature makes no attempt to groom itself, though it does use one of its hands to scratch itself on the rump, dislodging a thin flake of dried ketchup. Ford frowns, conceding that Fiddleford may be correct to assume that this creature needs to be bathed.H is, however, unsure as to how precisely to go about bathing this small humanlike creature.

The sink is along the wall opposite the counter, only a few steps around the table. Once Ford is standing before the sink with the creature, cradled in one hand while also held by the other, he realises that he doesn’t quite have anything to bathe the creature in. He is sure that as a child his mother bathed him in the sink, he’s seen the embarrassing photographs, but the creature in his hand that is looking up at him so trustingly is certainly small enough to fall through the drain and into the pipes and without the guarantee that he would be able to retrieve the creature unharmed, Ford can’t and won’t risk bathing the creature in the sink. Instead, he looks around for a shallow dish he could perhaps fill with water but he as unsuccessful in that as he was with the fork--or, the second fork as the first fork was found eventually. Ford doesn’t have time to look through drawers and cabinets for a dish that may or may not exist and when he glances at the table and the scattered array of mugs he briefly considers using one of the mugs as a kind of tub but decides against it for fear of the dish being too deep.

“Hm,” Ford hums while he thinks. “Don’t roll away,” he warns when he attempts to set the creature on the edge of the sink. The creature doesn’t let go, doesn’t let Ford regains of both of his hands; it clings to Ford and looks vaguely disgruntled, almost offended when Ford tries to dislodge it. “Stubborn, silly...” Ford grumbles as he looks around again, this time for some sort of cloth or towel but the only object even remotely in the class of what he’s looking for is the one wrapped around his waist. He huffs and licks his thumb before he brings it to the creature’s head. He’s surprised when the thing doesn’t flinch away, it only blinks rapidly as Ford’s thumb comes closer before closing its eyes when Ford makes contact with its small head.

The creature’s hair is coarse from the condiment causing it to clump and peak and the saliva on Ford’s thumb isn’t enough to soften the ketchup so Ford licks his thumb and tries again, scrubbing at the creature’s head. It feels as ineffective at the first attempt, the hair barely softening and instead Ford feels the very distinct crunch of dirty hair bending and the unhappy movements of the small creature and the tiny hands pushing at his thumb in protest. 

“Spee-speep,” it says, hands braced against the thick base of Ford’s thumb until Ford cannot physically move it toward the creature.

“You are dirty,” Ford explains, hoping that he can reason with this irrational if fascinating creature before resorting to something drastic. 

“Speeep,” The creature pushes at Ford’s thumb again and then begins to kick and wiggle until it is free of Ford’s grasp, standing uncertainly on the edge of the sink where Ford wanted it. 

“Stay,” Ford says but when he tries to remove his hand the small creature makes another noise of discontent and this time grabs Ford’s forefinger. Ford can feel the little vocalizations rumbling through its sternum from where the creature has pressed itself close. Ford twitches, between disgust and fascination, when he feels the tiny, warm wetness pass over his skin again, this time mouthing at the purlicue between Ford’s thumb and at the base of his forefinger. Ford bites the inside of his lip from making any undignified noises, the small, warm mouth is an insistent if light pressure that tickles and Ford can’t help but at least smile at the creature. When the creature catches Ford’s expression it releases Ford’s flesh to beam back at him, small, soft face bright and open. “Perhaps...you have quite the grip.” Ford hums and scoops the creature into his hand again. It falls again with a soft noise like a squeak and an “oof”. 

Ford turns the tap of the sink, pipes shaking and rattling as the water tank comes to life once more, and the water is unpleasantly lukewarm. Ford waits for the water to warm to something more pleasant before he realizes that he doesn’t actually know the temperature of the creature, isn’t sure if the water will overheat it. While the water runs he attempts to gently press the pad of his finger to the creature’s forehead the way he remembers his mother would and while it’s an unscientific method of measurement it suffices to confirm that the small creature is warm but not drastically so and that the warmer water should do it no harm.

Ford turns the tap down to reduce the water pressure to something gentler before he brings his hand and the small creature closer. It scrambles back when it realizes that Ford intends to submerge it under the stream, “Speeping” in alarm and nearly upsetting itself from Ford’s hand until Ford catches it, supporting the creature’s back.

“Hold still!” Ford scolds, halting his advance until the creature stops it’s small panicked tantrum to looked up at him in absolute terror and betrayal. “Don’t be dramatic,” Ford huffs and when he’s sure that the cone is no longer a danger to itself he lets his spare hand under the spout until the shallow basin of his hand is filled with water. The creature eyes Ford’s hand suspiciously and then flails furiously when Ford unceremoniously dumps the handful over the creature’s head. Before the creature can fully recover Ford begins to rub at its hair with his forefinger, trying to loosen the hardening clumps as the creature pushes at his finger, shaking its head and squirming. “Hold still!” Ford says, growing frustrated with the creature's stubborn refusal of his aide even as the hair beneath his fingers begins to soften. “If you hold still this will be over faster.” The creature gives a few more stubborn “Speep!"s before it goes lax as if defeated, blinking water from its eyes, small eyelashes dark and wet as if it’s been crying.

It's easier now that the creature isn't trying to jump from Ford's hand and once its hair is relatively clean Ford decides that it would be remiss of his to neglect the rest of the creature's hygiene. He carefully rubs at the creature's skin, removing the ketchup as it transitions back into its slimier form before diluting and finally running off the creature’s skin. 

The creature has relaxed fully by the time Ford has made his way down one arm and moves on to the next, dipping his fingers under the stream to clean them and wet them again as he begins to use his thumb as well. Ford glances at the creature's face to observe its level of stubborn discomfort but instead finds the creature's eyes drooping slightly above its round, flushing cheeks, the hand that isn't being massaged by Ford's fingers is balling against Ford's palm. Ford pauses in his ministrations when he observes the flush and possible rise in temperature, he places a finger against the creature's forehead again. It's much less efficient this time and Ford admits to himself that he isn't sure if the creature has become fevered or not. Small hands wrap around Ford's finger as a soft face presses against it and the creature sighs, eyes closing and softly smiling. Ford can feel a prickling heat on his cheeks, unnerved by the creature's affection but deeply warmed as well. 

The creature is, however, still dirty so Ford eases his finger out of the creature's grasp to its muted disappointment to examine the rest of the creature's body where ketchup is still clinging to the thin, fine hair of its chest and legs and, to Ford's great curiosity, the coarser pubic hair. 

As Ford continues his observation he notes the creature's small nipples, that have peaked under the gentle stimulation of Ford's finger, though that the creature had nipples at all confirms the mammalian characteristics at odds with the creature's arboreal heritage. The creature squirms in Ford's hand, whether from the scrutiny or physical sensation Ford isn't sure, but it doesn't attempt to remove itself, only growing redder as the rise and fall of its small chest grows more rapid. Ford continues his grooming, moving two fingers to rub over the creature's broad back from its shoulders to the delicate dip of the lumbar curve, feeling the miniscule muscles shiver in his wake. The creature doesn't move away, just clenches and unclenches its tiny fist and releases a guttural exhale like a groan and Ford worries for a moment that he had somehow injured the creature, applied too much pressure in the delicate vertebra, but the creature just sighs and leans into Ford. Ford rinses his fingers and returns to start on the creature’s legs, which are hairy along the calves, hair growing sparser the farther up the pale legs it goes until growing just a bit thicker at the creature's genitals. The ketchup here is more stubborn with all of the slender strands to cling to and Ford finds that he must apply a more insistent pressure that has the creature squirming again. Ford hesitates long enough to check the creature's face for signs of distress and frowns.

The creature is biting its lip, brows furrowed over its large eyes, the red flush of its face has darkened and diffused across its chest in splotches like a reversed vitiligo. It looks up from the fingers against its legs to meet Ford’s eyes and begins to smile shyly, almost bashfully. Ford watches its face a moment longer, fingers absently ascending along the inside of the creature’s legs.

“Hah!” Ford pulls his fingers back as if he’s been burnt when the creature’s entire body jolts and it cries out, head falling back and its mouth open as its tiny fingers try to dig into Ford’s palm. Ford immediately looks over the space his fingers had been, for any sign of injury, but finds only the pale skin of an inner thigh. 

“Are you hurt?” Ford places a gentle finger against the possible injury and confirms his suspicions when a tiny hand clasps his larger finger and the body squirms again. When Ford checks the creature’s face again its eyes are wide and intense with an unidentifiable emotion. “My apologies, you’re so small--” Ford begins, pulling his finger back but finds the creature isn’t pushing him away, is instead holding his finger in place and begins to move against Ford’s skin, rubbing its thigh against the rougher outer surface of Ford’s forefinger. “Oh!” Ford blushes and tries to pull his fingers away again when he notices the rising erection that has begun between the creature’s legs. The angle the creature has maneuvered itself into has brought its genitals unnervingly close to Ford’s finger, genitals that flush darker as the creature squirms. “Well, that’s--” Ford clears his throat over what he now knows to be a moan from the creature.

“Spah...faah,” the creature’s face is drawn into that face of unique distress of a creature seeking pleasure it has not or cannot attain.

“Fiddleford was wrong about you being a child,” Ford says at last. The creature gives Ford a needy look as its legs fall wider and the grip on his finger gets tighter, even as Ford tries again to pull away. “Well, I need to turn off the faucet,” Ford explains, trying to ignore the creature’s attempts to masturbate in his hands. The creature bites its lip in response, small hips thrusting instinctively, causing its now full erection to bob with the movement. Ford bites his own lip and tries to awkwardly turn the handle of the faucet with his elbow to the very vocal protests of the creature. 

Ford finds the creature even more stubborn when Ford tries to set it down on the surface of the table, attempting to hook a leg over Ford’s finger.

“No,” Ford pulls the hand that had been cradling the creature away so that it falls the short distance to the flat surface. It grunts at the slight impact and then whines loudly when Ford presses two insistent fingers to its chest and pushes. “This is probably inappropriate,” Ford says, trying to apply enough pressure to dislodge the stubborn creature but not enough to damage it. Finally, the creature loses its grip and falls and though Ford knows it is not injured the look it gives Ford and the noises it makes are both wounded as it splays against the table.

It squirms on the table top, hips twitching and as Ford looks more closely, eyes drawn to the desperate movements, he can see a wetness forming at the tip of the creature’s penis that is not from Ford’s attempt to bathe it, indicating the possible secretion of pre-ejaculate (and, therefore, the possibility of sexual reproduction between others of its kind unless the implied hybridization of plant and mammal has left it sterile). The creature, without the stimulus provided by thrusting against Ford’s hand, reaches down to paw at its genitals, pushing at its penis to no relief. The creature frowns and draws its hand back and up to its face, looking at it curiously before its small, pink tongue darts out to lap at whatever it has found there. Its face draws pinched in concentration, erection still leaking between its legs as it thinks. It pushes itself up to sit, one hand braced against the table as the other hand comes back to drag the palm of its hand against the head of its penis and then licking its hand again. It does this another time though instead of bringing its hand to its mouth it turns it, palm up and holds it aloft as if in offering. Ford watches it, bewildered, and when he fails to respond the creature rubs its palm against its penis with a moan before thrusting its hand up again and when Ford looks more closely at the open hand he sees that it is shiny with a thin fluid.

“Oh,” Ford says as he realizes that the creature has been licking its own precum from its hand and is now offering for Ford to do the same.

(Ford wonders if the previous pine cone’s secretions will taste like the Wishing Tree.)

“Fah,” it groans in frustration, deciding to clean its hand with its tongue again, though this time it looks intently at Ford as it does so. When it repeats the process again, when it offers its palmful of wet pre-ejaculate again, its face is glistening from where it has smeared its own release. “Ooh,” the creature makes a low noise, almost a growl.

“Ah,” Ford clears his throat. “Ah.” Ford admits that he is curious and that curiosity is what extends his finger and dips it into the tiny, wet palm. The texture of the fluid is not unlike his own pre-ejaculate, Ford notes absently. 

“Speep!” Ford is startled from his vague musing by the irritated noise of the creature so at odds with its desperate, wanton cries. The creature waits until it is sure Ford is looking at it and licks its hand again and waits. Ford doesn’t understand the impulse to mimic it, he suddenly wonders if the secretions of the Wishing Tree are mind-altering, if the effects linger in the system long after the evidence of any arboreal encounter is washed and tucked away. He wonders if that explains delicately licking the fluid from his fingertip, fluid that is, indeed, reminiscent of the Wishing Tree’s thin sap, though the small creature’s pre-ejaculate is slightly bitter along with the sweetness. 

“Foh,” the creature moans again, evidently satisfied with Ford’s actions enough to rub again at its tip. This time, when the creature offers itself to Ford, Ford braces himself against the table, forearms to either side of the creature and licks the fluid directly from the creature’s hand, the tip of his tongue light and gentle as it catches what the creature offers. “Ooh,” the creature groans and this close it’s impossible to see the creature’s expression but Ford feels the violent shudder that wracks through the creature’s whole body. Along with the sweetness and bitterness, Ford can taste the delicate salt that clings to the skin of anything that sweats and it makes something in him shiver.

“Is that what you wanted?” Ford asks when he draws back enough to see the creature and not a pale blur of color. The creature is panting, mouth hanging open, it’s brown eyes made darker by the dilation of its pupils. It whines in response to Ford, shifting so that its legs spread wider and pushing at its penis. On impulse, a sensation Ford is becoming more familiar with since his encounter with the Wishing Tree, Ford knocks the creature’s hand away, causing the small body to fall back before Ford surges forward and licks directly between the creature’s legs, catching the leaking pre-ejaculate as his tongue curls delicately around the small, slim penis.

“Foooraah,” the noise the creature makes is almost a wail, small fingernails scrabbling against the tabletop and small thighs trembling, almost closing until Ford hooks his thumbs between them to hold them open. He can feel the creature straining to close its legs and then falling wide as it tries to thrust up, trying to chase the sensation of Ford’s tongue. When it finds itself immobilized by Ford’s hold it whines and writhes until Ford laps out again. “Foo-oh!” The creature becomes explosive when Ford gently seals his lips around its genitals, testicles, and penis easily engulfed in the heat of his mouth, and strokes his tongue against the erection that has begun leaking the unique fluid (that reminds him of sunny, Autumn mornings and hot pancakes with salted margarine and watered down syrup because his father refused to buy more of the luxury when syrup still clung stubbornly to the sides of the bottle). He focuses on pulling as much of that strangely nostalgic flavor from the creature as he can, wincing only slightly when the small legs kick his cheek and upset his glasses. He shifts grasp on the creature from two handed to one, forefinger pinning one twitching leg to the table, ring and middle finger spreading and pinning the other. With his newly free hand, Ford runs a thumb from the creature’s trembling stomach to the creature’s face as it thrashed from one side to the other before it wraps its arms around Ford’s thumb with a cry, pressing its face into the pad as it ejaculates into Ford’s mouth.

Ford imagines that the noise the creature makes as it reaches climax would be much louder if it wasn’t muffled into Ford’s skin.

The ejaculate itself, as it settles from silk-thin spurts on the surface of his tongue, is a stronger flavor than the pre-ejaculate, more bitter, more sweet, and salty. The texture is fleeting as it the scant drops of semen seem to dissolve on his tongue amidst the saliva that has gathered in excess and the potent flavor mellows and diffuses until even when he swallows reflexively he can still taste the creature’s emissions.  

The creature sighs as Ford withdraws, a lewd string of saliva stretching between them before snapping, falling sloppily against Ford’s chin but when he moves to wipe it away,he freezes.

“What did you say?” He asks breathlessly, staring wide-eyed at the creature. It smiles sleepily up at him, limp with euphoria and says with surprising clarity in a voice rough as tree bark:

“Ford.”


End file.
